


you can't explain the present til you work out what the past meant

by toushindai (WallofIllusion)



Category: Baccano!
Genre: alcohol use, by which I mean JPA is drunk, fermet stop playing with your food, you can read this as vaguely romantic if you want I don't mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:12:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9595379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallofIllusion/pseuds/toushindai
Summary: In which Lebreau draws the story of Jean’s childhood out of him as easily as if it were on a string, and Jean struggles to return the favor.





	

“Are we out of wine, Jean?”

“Lebreau, you wound me. I am a poet. I am _never_ out of wine.”

Jean reached behind the stack of books on his desk and pulled out the bottle stashed there. He usually kept it there for emergencies (writer’s block, mostly), but he and Lebreau had gone from drinking in a tavern to drinking in his study and they were having too much fun to stop now. He offered the bottle to his friend.

“Wonderful.” Lebreau poured himself another glass and topped off Jean’s as well without hesitation. He raised his glass in a wordless toast and then lowered it without taking a sip, the playful smile below his thick bangs never wavering. “Who do you think needs wine more, Jean? Poets or playwrights?”

“ _Fortunately_ , I don’t have to choose.” Jean wagged his finger at his friend. “Because the ones who need wine most of all are the poets whom _everyone_ keeps insisting write better plays than poetry. But I don’t know _any_ of those.”

He meant it as a joke—mostly—but Lebreau’s smile turned pained. “Oh, Jean. Does that still bother you? You know I think your poetry is beautiful. Theater is just more accessible to the masses, that’s all.”

At the surprisingly genuine concern on Lebreau’s face, Jean hastily took a gulp from his glass and answered his friend seriously. “No, I’m just kidding. It—well, it stings a little, if I’m being honest, but a man’s gotta eat, right?”

“Well, yes. But I suppose it must still be frustrating, to have your passion and your best works overlooked.”

It was. It was, but— “I’m glad _you_ think my poems are beautiful, at least,” Jean said. The last sip of alcohol had made him feel quite warm. He put down his glass for a moment.

But where he felt overwhelmed, Lebreau only felt energized. “I _do_ ,” he insisted, leaning forward eagerly and setting his own glass aside. “They’ve always spoken to me—the _images_ you craft for the emotions you feel are so just powerful. I can’t even imagine having the creativity you have. Alchemy is all equations and chemicals. It doesn’t compare to the magic you work with words.”

“ _Lebreau_ ,” Jean protested with a laugh. He flushed, and this time he couldn’t blame it on the alcohol. “Knock it off.”

“No,” his friend answered, smiling impishly. “You deserve to hear about your own talent. Besides, I see that smile on your face. You _love_ hearing about yourself. There’s no need to deny it.”

To conceal the smile, Jean buried his lips in his wine glass for a moment. Then, swallowing, he argued, “It’s not my most attractive trait.”

Lebreau shrugged. “Who cares? There’s nothing wrong with a little narcissism every now and then. If you’re impressive, why not be impressed with yourself?”

“I’m not impressive.”

“Well, if nothing else, you’ve drunk an _impressive_ amount of wine this evening,” Lebreau said dryly. “And besides, you _are_ impressive. I won’t hear of anyone saying otherwise. I’m always bragging about you to everyone I know.”

Jean flushed a little deeper, but Lebreau’s praise was too relentless to counter it all, and he couldn’t seem to pull the smile off his face. He drained his glass of wine and cast a surreptitious glance at the bottle Lebreau had set by his feet where he reclined in the armchair. Lebreau followed his gaze and picked up the bottle.

“I’m cutting you off after this,” he said primly. “Don’t make me drink the rest of this bottle myself to keep you sober.”

Jean rolled his eyes. “Sober and I aren’t even the same city at this point, Lebreau.” Nevertheless, he raised his glass and let Lebreau top it off one last time.

When he set the bottle on the floor again, Lebreau was smiling. “You know what people always ask me, when I tell them about what you write?”

Jean groaned. “If this is going to make me combust with embarrassment, spare me, I beg of you. Wait till I’ve dried out.”

“No, no, it isn’t embarrassing. I never know how to answer, though.”

“All right, go ahead.”

“They all want to know how you got started. How long have you been writing for? I must confess, I never know what to say to them.”

“Uh- _huh_.” Jean narrowed his eyes at his friend, a crooked smile on his face. “You’re a liar, Lebreau.”

Lebreau started. “A liar?”

“No one’s ever asked you that question, have they? You just want to know yourself. You can’t fool me, I know _aaaall_ about how you work.”

Lebreau’s mouth hung open for a moment. Then—

“Haha—!”

He buried his face in one hand, his shoulders shaking as he tried to control his mirth. In a moment, he caught his breath and lowered his hand. “Oh, dear. You caught me, Jean. I suppose you’ve figured me out.”

“I am a _poet_ , Lebreau. It’s my _job_ to see into people’s hearts.” He gestured with the wine glass, only narrowly avoiding spilling, and then took a sip to reduce that risk.

“So it is. I suppose your stories wouldn’t have any emotional depth if you didn’t understand people.”

“That’s right.”

That impish smile was tugging at Lebreau’s lips again, but in a moment, it was swallowed up by an earnest expression instead. He took a sip of his wine and leaned forward. “All right, then, I admit it’s purely my own curiosity. Will you still indulge it? When _did_ you start writing, Jean?”

“You sure you want to hear this story?”

The reason he was sure that no one had ever asked Lebreau the question was that no one had ever asked _him_ , not seriously. Maiza had once scoffed that he couldn’t understand how anyone would get into writing for fun, but that had been less of a question and more a roundabout dismissal of anything that might be considered “refined.” On the other hand, that same Maiza was diligently studying under the alchemists of the Third Library these days and had even, in recent months, been seen to _bow_ to others in greeting—so who knew how he would have responded if Jean had started talking about his inspiration to him now?

Regardless of anyone else’s interest, Lebreau took a sip of his wine and then leaned forward. “Of course I want to hear it, Jean! Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s boring. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Jean looked at the desk next to him, covered in the drafts of his latest poem. “I’ve been writing ever since someone first handed me a pen. Before I could even read, really. I used to make up stories in my head and make random marks on paper, then force my parents and their friends to listen to me as I ‘read’ the stories back to them.”

Lebreau chuckled. “You must have been _adorable_ as a child.”

“Well, they didn’t always think so. I think they made sure I knew how to read and write as soon as possible so that I’d stop wasting their valuable parchment and ink. And, well, I was eight years old. Just because I was able to string a few words together didn’t mean what I wrote _wasn’t_ still a waste of space. But I improved as I got older.”

“Did your parents like your writing?”

Jean shrugged. “They hardly encouraged me to turn to poetry, for what that’s worth. Tried to teach me to sew so I could make an honest living as a tailor.”

“I suppose they weren’t expecting you to use that skill to make costumes for your theater productions.”

“No, they certainly weren’t.” Jean shook his head, but there was a bit of a fond smile to his lips. “They come to my plays, though. And Mother says that Father recites ‘Under the Winter Olive Tree’ whenever someone comes over that he wants to impress.”

Lebreau raised his glass to him. “See, there’s someone else who thinks your poetry is beautiful.”

“They’re my _parents_. They’re required to.”

“Ahaha… Are they?” Lebreau asked in a strange voice.

The smile slipped from Jean’s face and he furrowed his brow. Lebreau was still smiling, but as he’d spoken, he’d turned his face away slightly, and even with his eyes hidden, Jean sensed a sudden air of awkwardness to him. He watched as his friend lifted his wine to his lips and took a silent sip. When he lowered the glass, his smile, too, had faded. Then he looked back at Jean and seemed to shake himself.

“I apologize, Jean, that wasn’t how I meant to respond. Of course parents are more inclined towards interest in their child’s creations, but that doesn’t mean they don’t believe in you. I’m sure they love your work.”

Now he was sounding more like himself again. But it wasn’t in Jean’s nature to let that moment pass.

“Lebreau,” he said, “I may be a poet, but I’m _also_ a playwright.”

Lebreau tilted his head. “Yes? I suppose that’s true, as rare as it is for you to claim the title with any gusto.”

“That means I know a story when I see one.”

“…Ah.”

“Your parents aren’t keen on alchemy?”

“Hah.” Lebreau glanced downwards at his glass, rolling the stem between his fingers thoughtfully. “No, they wouldn’t have been. I didn’t pursue it until after my father’s death, but—no. He _certainly_ wouldn’t have approved of alchemy.”

His shoulders twitched with a shudder, and Jean’s frown deepened. He’d never seen Lebreau look so unsettled before. He inhaled deeply before he spoke. “Listen, Lebreau… I shouldn’t have joked about seeing a story in your past. If there’s something you want to talk about, I’m listening. Not as a vulture waiting to swoop in and pick the story off your bones, but as a friend. You listened to me. It’s only fair.”

Lebreau raised his head briefly—but then shook his head. “No, I couldn’t. It’s in the past, Jean. There’s no reason to bring the mood down by—”

“I don’t care about that.” Jean set his wineglass on his desk and stood, then crossed the room to kneel in front of Lebreau. He took his friend’s free hand. “You can talk to me about anything, Lebreau. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me? That there’s power in putting your thoughts into words?”

“There is, but—” Lebreau’s hand tightened around his. “I told myself I’d never let this see the light of day. It’s too ugly. Too awful.”

“We’re both drunk off our asses. I’m not sure this is ‘the light of day.’“

“Speak for yourself; I’m perfectly sober.”

“Well, the rest of the wine’s right there if you want to fix that.”

“No.” Lebreau hesitated, then shook his head and repeated, “No. I can’t—I can’t do it yet. I’m sorry, Jean. It was an accident to bring it up at all, and I’m just… not ready.”

“All right.” Jean squeezed his friend’s hand. From this angle, he could almost see Lebreau’s eyes, and he wished for once that he _could_ ; he wished he could read just a little more of how Lebreau was feeling. Because he—because he wanted to help.

(—not because he was curious—)

Because Lebreau did so much to support him, and he often wished there was some way he could pay that back.

“If there’s ever anything— _anything_ —you need to talk about,” he said, “you can come to me.”

Lebreau’s smile was a sad one for just a moment; then it warmed up.

“Thank you, Jean. I hope I can tell you about it someday.”


End file.
